“Very well,” Doreen spoke through tight lips. “I want my room redone and I want it done immediately. I hate the colors!”
“Uh … yes, dear.”
“And I want satin or silk sheets. Those cotton sheets are just so shabby!” “Right, my queen.”
“I want my breakfast served to me in bed.”
“Uh … of course, dear.” Jud was beginning to wonder if having a woman around on a permanent basis was going to be worth all the trouble. He wondered if other kings had the same problem.
“And I want a party.”
“A party!”
“Yes. A great big fancy ball.” She was doing some fast thinking and hoping it would work. “And I want everybody in southeastern Idaho invited. Well announce our engagement there.”
Jud fell to his knees; unfortunately, one knee landed squarely in a fresh pile of horse manure, but Jud appeared not to notice. “Oh, Doreen—do you really mean that?”
“Of course, I do. I’ll start working on the invitation list immediately.”
Jud kissed her hand. “I’m so happy, my queen!”
You won’t be so happy when you see the guest list, Doreen thought. And on the night the ball is held, that’s when I turn back into a pumpkin and get the hell away from you and this nuthouse!
“Bar V rider comin’,” Jackson said. “And he’s comin’ up holdin’ a white flag.”
Jud had reluctantly agreed to invite Walt and Alice and Smoke and Rusty. He had done so after Doreen had pointed out that he had a hundred or somen on the ranch; what could Smoke do with all those guns around him?
Scott Johnson, the Arizona gun hand, handed Smoke several envelopes. “You lose, Jensen,” he said with a nasty grin. “Miss Doreen and Jud is gonna announce their weddin’ plans at this here shindig. And she said to tell you that that Shakyspear feller said it best when he was talkin’ about friends, romans, and countrymen. Whatever the hell that means.”
Scott turned his horse and rode off.
Smoke smiled, thankful that he had wintered that time with Preacher and all those books. He remembered the line well. I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him!
“Wipe that hound dog look off your face, Rusty,” he told the man. “She’s telling us to get her out of there and giving us a way to do it.”
“Damned if I see how.”
“Jud'll probably have men at the door friskin’ certain people before they enter the mansion,” Jackson said. “We won’t be able to carry guns inside.” He paused. “We, hell, I wasn’t even invited!”
“You’ll be going though,” Smoke told him. “At least part of the way.” He looked at the date on the invitation. “We’ve got a week to plan things out. First thing I’ve got to do is see who all was invited and who is planning to attend. I’m going to send Jamie and Leroy to poke around some.” He looked at Rusty’s long face. “Relax, Rusty. Well get your sweetie back.”
The governor was invited to the party. He sent word that he would not be able to attend. So did the general in charge of all federal troops in Idaho Territory. But Sheriff Brady said he wouldn’t miss it for the world. And the young reporter from the Montpelier newspaper would attend. Most of the ranchers and a few of the farmers— Doreen had insisted the nesters be invited—agreed to attend the party.
Smoke had decided he would go in unarmed. When the time came to grab Doreen, he would bust a guard over the noggin with something—maybe the punch bowl if it came to that—take his guns and really liven up the party.
Smoke was going to stay close to the ranch until the night of the big event. He didn’t want to put Doreen’s rescue in jeopardy by running into any of the bounty hunters who were out looking for him. That could come later.
At the Bar V, Doreen had everybody there, from the cooks to the cowboys, running around the lower half of the territory, driving them about half-crazy, picking up this, that, and the other thing for the ball. She wanted them to be so tired come the night of the event that all they would want to do is lie down and sleep and to hell with the party. She didn’t know if that would be the case, but it was worth a try.
Jud had ordered cases of champagne sent in, and as many different types of “finger foods,” as Doreen called them, as could be found within three days’ ride of the Bar V. Since no one in their right mind would work for Jud Vale, he was forced to use some of his own hired guns and cowboys to act as waiters. He bought them all brand new black suits, with white shirts and black string ties, and low quarter shoes and white gloves. There was a lot of bitching going on about that, but Jud told them either do it or haul their ashes.
Doreen had insisted upon a band, so Jud managed to round up a guitar player, a fiddle player, and someone to toot on a bugle. It was the best he could do on such short notice.
Jud was undecided as to what to wear to the gala event. Doreen said she would clean up his ermine robe—it had a few food and wine spots on it—and he could polish his crown and shine his boots and spurs. He would look so nice.
She wanted him to look like the fool he was so everyone there could see the real Jud Vale.
“Can I wear my guns, Doreen?” Jud asked.
“Oh, but of course, darling!” She had overheard him telling his men to frisk everyone. She hoped Smoke and Rusty would be able to arm themselves once inside the nuthouse.
Time was running out.
Smoke laid down the ground rules.
